Bella Summer Takes a Chance Page 12

  By the end of the mission I’d delivered nearly forty demos. Big venues, small ones, top end, bottom of the barrel, I tried them all. The demo piles at the low-end clubs were smaller, and gave me just the tiniest smidge of hope that the booker would call. Only the tiniest smidge. It was such a chicken-and-egg game. Without the exposure of working regularly I wasn’t going to get a manager. And with no manager to pester the venues to give me a chance, I wasn’t going to get the work. I was pretty deflated by the time I got back to the flat.

  ‘Hello!’ Faith called from the sofa, where she was giving Fred a manicure. Their friendship was still unsettling, though it made perfect sense. Faith got a camp best friend to dote on her and Fred got lovely arm candy. They had the perfect twenty-first-century dysfunctional relationship. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘I dropped off all the demos, and met a few of the bookers. But I didn’t feel the love.’ I slumped in the chair.

  ‘Oh, angel heart,’ Fred said. ‘As soon as they hear your music they’ll be on the phone to book you. It just takes some time, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t have time! I probably left it too late.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re talking about popping out bambini,’ Faith said. ‘Don’t worry, music doesn’t have a ticking biological clock.’

  ‘No, you’re right. Music has an actual clock. And it says that if you’re over about twenty-five, you’re too old.’

  ‘But you sing for old people,’ Fred said. ‘I mean, you sing for jazz lovers. I’ve seen the clientele at The Boisdale. You don’t have to be a spring chicken in your business. Your voice is beautiful, your songs are beautiful, you worked for years at The Boisdale, and you’ll work in lots of clubs, I just know it.’ He examined his newly buffed nails. ‘You just need to get noticed.’

  ‘That manager I met suggested that I put something on YouTube. But I don’t know what.’

  ‘Ohh, porn! Excellent idea. What have you done recently? Though perhaps,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘Some earlier work would be better for marketing purposes.’

  ‘Thanks, Fred. No porn. I think he was talking about some singing.’

  ‘Oh, come on, surely there’s at least one indiscretion posted somewhere on the Net. An “artful” video? Or was it a dirrrty one?’

  ‘None of the above. The only videos I’ve been in are the ones that Dad makes of Mum and me at Christmas. I don’t even know where they are.’ That was a lie. I was having an attack of the bashfuls. What a great worldwide singing sensation I’d make, afraid to face audiences. I’d be the Banksy of the musical world. ‘I guess I could dig one out.’

  Ten minutes later, as the video ended, I was blushing with pride.

  ‘I think I’m going to cry,’ Faith said. She did look a little wet around the edges. ‘That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s really Mum. She’s amazing, isn’t she?’

  ‘No, B., it’s both of you. The harmony is incredible. I’ve always loved her music, but listening to you both. It’s magical.’

  ‘That has to be your YouTube track. It’s perfect.’ Fred was bouncing on the sofa, displacing Faith with each landing. Do you have a digital copy?’

  ‘Fred.’ I sighed.

  ‘Sorry. I forgot you’re a Luddite. I’ll get it converted to MPEG4 and we can upload it. My mate can do it. B., you’re going to be famous!’

  I did love my flatmate. His brutal honesty cut both ways. He wasn’t about to lie just to make me feel better, so I knew he meant what he said. And I did feel a bit better. ‘Thanks. I also called my agent to remind her that I exist. Hopefully that’ll lead to a few gigs, even if I have to dress like a bloody pear again.’

  ‘We must suffer for our art,’ Faith said. ‘At least you didn’t have your pubic hair pulled out only to have the editor kill the article. Now it’s growing back in and my vagina looks like a–’

  ‘Too much information! I’m sorry it didn’t get published. And I’m sorry about your stubble. What’s your next assignment?’

  ‘Just some boring stuff about council cuts. My editor says it’s a promotion–’

  ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Don’t crack the champagne,’ she said. ‘It’s not. It’s just that nobody else wants to go to all the council meetings, so I’m stuck with the job. I give him credit for trying to polish that particular turd, but there’s no getting around the fact that it’s still brown and smells of merde.’ She sighed. ‘Please pass the wine.’

  Misery certainly loved company.

  Chapter 12

  Misery was having a busy week. Clare sobbed down the phone when I answered the next morning. ‘I gather Fiona’s called you too?’ I said. My own shock prevented me from giving her as much comfort as I’d have liked. Foul Fiona was delighted to be the bearer of bad news. ‘The project’s been cancelled. There’s no work for you,’ she’d said, effusing her characteristic milk of human kindness. If I ever needed to break the news about a terminal disease to a mortal enemy, I’d send Fiona to do the job. ‘Clare, honey, do you want me to come over?’

  ‘Noooo, you’ve got the play to go to. It’d be terrible karma to disappoint an old lady.’ She meant Marjorie. The Grandson and I were chaperoning her and The Colonel at the theatre. ‘The Shag’ll be here soon anyway. He’s now insisting that I eat breakfast. He’s started coming over on weekends to cook for me.’

  ‘That’s sweet.’

  ‘It’s mistrustful. He just doesn’t think I’m eating enough. See? Obviously he doesn’t know me. I’m fine, really I am.’ She hiccupped. ‘It’s the damn hormones. The book says it’s normal to be a blithering mess. Really. I’m fine. It’s just a shock, you know? I never thought… It doesn’t matter. Are you okay? Here I am sobbing like a mental patient, and I didn’t even ask you.’

  ‘Of course I’m shocked, but it’ll be okay. We’ll get other assignments, don’t worry. I’m not worried. I’ll call you as soon as I get back, okay? I can come round for dinner. Sushi or Indian?’

  ‘Does nobody trust me to eat?’

  ‘No! It’s not–’

  ‘I’m just joking. I can’t eat sushi. And Indian is giving me terrible wind these days. You think I’m bad company now. I don’t even want to be in the room with myself when I’ve had a curry.’

  ‘What a lovely image, thanks. You can text me a little later when you decide. I’ll pick up something unwindy on my way, okay?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got a million things to do and I think I’d better stick to porridge for the moment. You don’t have to come over. I really am fine. I will be fine.’

  ‘I know you will be. We both will. I’ll call you later.’

  But the truth was, I was far from fine. Being unemployed wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I didn’t live 4,000 miles away from my parents’ sofa. Without a job I couldn’t afford to pay rent at Frederick’s. And there wouldn’t be any redundancy money coming my way either. When Fiona pulled the plug, that sink drained immediately. Rainy day savings? Nearly all my cash had gone into buying the flat with Mattias. Oh, what a smug homeowner I’d been. Cash? Pah! I had a place to live, low mortgage payments and a boyfriend to fall back on. For the past seven years I’d put all my extra money into a pension. That’d come in very handy in twenty-seven years.

  Mattias called on the way to the theatre. ‘You’ll be happy to know that I’m not going to Zurich,’ I told him. He’d made his views on my move perfectly clear in the past few weeks. Not a phone call passed without him asking, and then telling me that it was probably for the best that I didn’t go.

  ‘Are you upset?’

  ‘Yes, I’m upset! I don’t have a job. Now what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Come over, we’ll talk about it.’

  I sighed. ‘I can’t. I’ve got the theatre today with Marjorie.’

  ‘That’s right. Come over after then, okay? I’ll cook us dinner.’

  ‘All right. Thanks, Mattias.’

  I arrived at the
theatre in a foul mood, my shoes soaked through from the April shower and calculating the number of months that my savings would stretch before I officially became a cliché and went to work at Starbucks. But seeing Marjorie and The Colonel together lifted my spirits, at least out of the gutter to a very low kerb. How sweet that they got as excited about spending the day together as any teenagers would (minus the hormones). It just proved that Cupid wasn’t ageist.

  I did have doubts about whether Priscilla Queen of the Desert was age-appropriate, though. I snuck a peek at The Colonel as the opening scene unfolded. He stared at the stage, the dawning possibility that all was not what it seemed furrowing his brow. Marjorie nodded her head to the music, clapping along with the rest of the audience, clearly delighted with the show. I couldn’t make out The Grandson’s expression but it probably sat somewhere around bored tolerance. I found him a bit formal and, well, English, which made his obvious soft spot for his granddad surprising – he always kissed him tenderly. He did seem nice, if a little distracted by his job (he ran a charity) and life in general.

  I knew exactly how he felt. My shortness of breath wasn’t because my waistband was too tight (although it was). The idea of being cut loose from work was inducing a panic attack. Or possibly a stroke. It felt like one of life’s crossroads, where people chose a new path that would have important consequences for their future. I didn’t want to be at a crossroads, I just wanted another job so I didn’t have to get my Sunday lunch from a soup kitchen.

  Contemplating my future certainly took the shine off the glamorous spectacle on stage. The play was over in the blink of an eye. Not unlike my job prospects.

  ‘That was just wonderful!’ Marjorie exclaimed when I wheeled her towards the exit. ‘Such energy! And the singing, my, wasn’t that fun?’

  The Colonel’s expression didn’t shift from its opening scene consternation. ‘Damn good voice on that one in pink. Baritone. Unusual for a woman.’

  The Grandson peered at him, looking perhaps for signs of humour. But The Colonel’s sight was on par with his hearing.

  Marjorie patted the hand resting proprietarily on her shoulder. ‘That wasn’t a woman, dear, it was a man.’

  ‘Beg your pardon?’ He boomed.

  ‘A man, dear,’ she shouted into his better ear as he bent stiffly toward her. ‘It was a man, not a woman.’

  ‘That was a queer?’ We’d arrived at the restaurant’s foyer next door for tea. He didn’t mean to shout this abuse at the maître d’.

  ‘That’s right, dear, they’re homosexuals.’

  ‘What, all of them?’ He turned to The Grandson, confessing with some feeling, ‘But they were damn good-looking.’

  ‘I know, Granddad, but Marjorie’s right. They’re gay, or at least transvestites.’

  ‘Don’t split hairs, boy. What’s the damn difference?’

  This was not a conversation I wanted to have at full volume. With The Colonel, there wasn’t much choice.

  ‘Often transvestites aren’t gay, Granddad.’

  ‘What are they, then?’

  Marjorie patted The Colonel’s hand again to cushion the bad news coming. ‘Well, dear, they wear women’s clothes.’

  ‘Then they’re queer,’ he said.

  ‘Not always. Lots of times they’re married,’ I said, wondering why I was voluntarily prolonging this discussion.

  ‘Listen, young lady, I knew a few bent men in my time in the military. Some of them were married. That doesn’t prove a damn thing. If they wear women’s clothes, then they’re queer.’

  ‘They say J. Edgar Hoover was a cross-dresser.’ Marjorie smiled, happy to be able to contribute such an important piece of evidence.

  This news momentarily stumped The Colonel, leaving his respect for institutions like the FBI battling with his aversion. ‘Well, what a man does in the privacy of his own home is one thing,’ he finally said. ‘Standing up on stage like that and pretending to be something he’s not, is quite another.’

  Respect for authority had won out.

  ‘But you liked the show didn’t you, Granddad?’

  ‘Hmmph.’

  ‘You liked it, didn’t you, B.?’ The Grandson asked.

  ‘What? Oh, yes, I thought it was great!’

  ‘B.’s a singer too, you know,’ Marjorie said proudly. ‘Maybe we’ll come hear you sing one day, dear.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ The Grandson grinned. ‘You never said.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I qualify as a singer. I sing.’

  ‘Of course you qualify,’ Marjorie said. ‘If you sing, then that makes you a singer. It’s a gift, you shouldn’t be shy about it.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t really have a career,’ I told The Grandson by way of explanation for my sudden blush. ‘I just do, did, gigs for one venue. I don’t even have a manager. So it’s not really a career.’

  ‘Would you like it to be?’ He asked.

  He had very pretty grey eyes, sitting deeply in a sort of scrunchy, rough face. And he had a rather prominent brow. It didn’t exactly protrude, but I knew what a caricature artist would target. Either that or his madly wavy hair. Or the deep cleft in his chin. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about that lately. When I lived in the US I had a manager and worked regularly. I guess I thought of myself as a singer, then. The consulting was just a job, something that paid the rent. I’m not sure when that changed, when the job became the career. Lately, though, I’ve been thinking seriously about making a real go of the singing. Hah. Actually, maybe today is the day that starts. I found out that my next assignment has fallen through.’ I grasped Marjorie’s hand. ‘So the good news is that I don’t have to go to Zurich.’

  ‘Oh dear, B. But the bad news is that you’re unemployed?’

  ‘Yes, it looks like I am.’

  The Grandson said, ‘Well, you sound remarkably calm about it. That’s good. Maybe this is a turning point.’

  ‘That’s right, a blessing in disguise.’ Marjorie nodded.

  ‘Maybe it is,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. It could just be a pipe dream. I don’t even know if I’m that good.’

  ‘Well, of course you are. You sing regularly at that club you just mentioned.’

  ‘Well, not any more. They cut the singers because of the recession. Two redundancies in a month. That’s pretty bad luck, eh? And it wasn’t a regular gig anyway, just once or twice a month.’ My left arm was tingling. Panic attack? Heart attack? No. Identity attack.

  Funny thing, identity. Like shanty towns, they were built by many hands over time. A tarpaulin here and corrugated sheet there, bits of homeliness slowly added until they were as comfortable for their owners as they could be. But how fragile, how easily destroyed, their contents strewn down the hillside. They could never be rebuilt exactly as they were before they were cast apart, could they? Surely not, not when some of those walls and contents were lost or carried away. New materials were needed.

  How did one define oneself without a job, without even one of the socially acceptable reasons for not having one? What else was I? It was a rather big question to try answering over Earl Grey and scones but Marjorie and The Colonel were engrossed in conversation, and The Grandson was outside on his mobile, so I had time. I seemed only able to define myself in relation to others – daughter, friend, sister, employee. Surely it was abnormal not to have my own characteristics, unreflected by the outside world. I was an independent and intelligent woman. Aha! Woman. That was one. I was a woman. I guess it was a start.

  ‘So sorry,’ The Grandson said, patting his granddad when he returned to our little table. ‘We’re in the middle of writing our grants and, well, it isn’t as easy as you’d think.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound easy at all. What are the grants for?’ I asked politely, trying not to notice the lovebirds making rheumy eyes at each other.

  ‘That’s how we’re funded, mostly. We make the rounds each year with the begging bowl. There should be a better way. It isn’t as if charities are
trifling little indulgences. We do important work. If we didn’t, a lot of people would suffer much more even than they do now.’

  His forehead was furrowed with emotion. He might be formal, but there seemed a lot bubbling beneath that smooth surface. ‘Have you always worked in charity?’

  The Colonel tore his attention away from his paramour to shout, ‘He used to have a bloody good job. He was the vice president of the bank!’

  The Grandson smiled as if familial tolerance was his cross to bear. ‘Granddad, I’ve told you, I was just one of the vice presidents.’ He leaned toward me. ‘It was Barclays. There were many vice presidents. So no, I used to be in finance. I moved five or six years ago.’

  ‘To give something back?’ I admired people like The Grandson. When it came time for the big man in the sky to tally up my debits and credits, I wasn’t likely to be in the black. Visiting Marjorie once a week didn’t compensate for all those Big Issue sellers I’d ignored over the years.

  ‘Er, not exactly,’ he said. ‘I was made redundant and couldn’t find another job. Oh, it’s okay,’ he said to my buckets-of-empathy face. ‘I was fine about it. I’d wanted to do something else, anything else really, for a while. I probably wouldn’t have left on my own. One doesn’t do that in banking, unless it’s to go to graduate school, or travel around the world, or get a job that pays more.’

  ‘Those are the only reasons for someone leaving?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Unless you have a breakdown, but then you’d tell everyone you’re travelling around the world. That makes it sound awful, doesn’t it? It wasn’t really so bad. I enjoyed some of the work. It just wasn’t the most fulfilling job in the world.’ He nodded at my look. ‘Yes, I know. I shouldn’t moan about being fulfilled given the packet we earned. Granddad says the same thing, don’t you granddad?’ He shouted the end of his sentence.

  ‘It’s obscene the money those people earn. For what?’ The Colonel snarled. ‘We defended countries, civilians. We didn’t expect millions for it. We did our job and we did it proudly.’ He sounded ready to break into Churchill’s ‘We shall fight them on the beaches’ speech. He was right, though. It was hard to justify the salaries of teachers or firefighters or soldiers against those of bankers. Or consultants, come to think of it. I’d been paid a lot to be the business equivalent of a closet organiser.